Page 11 of Remy

This guy doesn’t want the inane intricacies of why I’m here. I don’t want to give them to him either. Not when the conversation would inevitably lead to the family business, then devolve into the usual morbid questions that inspire my lack of faith in humanity.

“You thought?” he prods, his lips a slight tilt from mine.

I could kiss him. Could incline my chin and claim his mouth.

Would the contact scorch me as much as his hand?

Would it ruin me like he promised?

“Ollie?” he whispers. “Tell me your secrets.”

“They’re not worth knowing.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” He moves in and nuzzles the sensitive skin below my ear. “At least tell me if I was right earlier.” His hand creeps higher. So slowly. So teasingly painful. “How many men have had the pleasure of touching you? Tasting you?”

Oh. Dear. Lord.

I shake my head, denying him an answer.

“How many?” he murmurs.

I clamp my eyes closed, hiding from humiliation as I dig my nails into the leather of the booth seat. “None.”

His hand pauses its ascent, his body turning rigid.

Silence rings in my ears.

There’s nobody else. Only him and me. Only my mortification and his unease.

He pulls back, his gaze like a beaming spotlight behind my closed lids, his attention illuminating my inexperience.

Goddamnit.

I force my eyes open and face the regret staring down at me.

A battle wages war in those deep brown irises—one I don’t understand.

“Forgive me, Ollie.” His voice is barely audible. “But I don’t mess with virgins.”

Rejection leaves me chilled. “I may be a virgin, but I’m not virginal.”

His nostrils flare. “It’s not because I don’t want you.”

“Please.” I glide my hand over the wrist between my thighs like a lust-drunk fool. “I haven’t come close to tasting ruin yet.”

I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. What the hell I’m begging for.

I just met this guy and he’s touching me in public, for heaven’s sake. But I can’t help craving more. He’s got me hooked. Drugged.

His jaw ticks.

I hold my breath.

Heartbeats pass. Wild and crazed.

Then his fingers move again, the slightest brush of fingertips teasing over the elastic bordering my crotch. I suck in a shuddering breath, the exhilaration from the simplest of movements almost blinding.

His other arm slides around my shoulder, his hand returning to my hair, my scalp. “Are you wet for me, Ollie?”

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